


The Raven and the Queen

by rufousnmacska



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kingdom of Ash, Lots of Angst, Manorian, blackbeak witches, but nothing too graphic, crochan witches, ironteeth witches, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22443517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufousnmacska/pseuds/rufousnmacska
Summary: This comes from two different fic requests on tumblr - one with Dorian saving Manon from the Blackbeak Matron, and the other with Dorian defeating Erawan and Maeve at the end of Kingdom of Ash. One fic started to bleed into the other and this is the result.High levels of angst! (At least for me)
Relationships: Manon Blackbeak/Dorian Havilliard
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Circling above the dark stone keep, Dorian struggled to hold his magic in check. Not his shifter magic, as there was no threat that he’d suddenly transform back into a human and fall from the sky. It was the killing power that he gripped with invisible hands, trying to keep it under control until the right moment. If he unleashed it now, it might bring down the entirety of Blackbeak Keep, and take Manon with it.

His raven’s cry pierced the chilly fog and he hoped she might hear it. Hoped she would recognize it and know he was coming for her. If he could imitate Abraxos, and if it wouldn’t draw the Matron’s coven down on him, he’d have roared in the wyvern’s voice. Any kind of sign to let her know she wasn’t alone.

Another long arc across the sky brought him to the edge of the forest where he perched in the uppermost limbs of a tree. The keep’s layout was clear to him now, along with the magic used to shield it. He’d teased out the threads of power in it and could fly through it easily. No sentry had given an alarm, no one had even looked out a window in his direction. Having memorized the interior map drawn by a lesser Blackbeak witch, Dorian had a good idea of where she was held. The dungeon was too obvious.

Petrah, in her mystical way of sensing things she had no business knowing, had suggested he look in the upper levels. Her scouts hadn’t been able to give details, but the Blueblood seemed certain that the Matron would not treat Manon as a normal prisoner.

Dorian wished with an aching heart for the Thirteen. With Asterin and the others by his side, this rescue would be fast and easy. 

But they were gone. Besides, if they were here, none of this would have happened. Their absence was the only thing capable of leaving Manon vulnerable enough for the Matron’s scheme to unfold.

Glennis told him of their sacrifice to save the people and armies surrounding Orynth. How, afterwards, they’d thought the Matron had also perished in the yielding. But then, Abraxos returned from where they’d gone to mourn, frantic and alone. They’d thought the brief respite from fighting was the enemy regrouping, planning new attacks without its witch mirrors. Too late, they realized one of those plans was for the Matron to take Manon. Why the witch didn’t kill her granddaughter outright, as she’d threatened so many times before, no one knew. Ironteeth and Crochan scouts tracked them here, but they were unable to penetrate the keep’s magical defenses to save their queen. Some had not returned.

After Erawan was defeated by Yrene’s magic and Elide’s quick thinking, and after Maeve had vanished into dust, Glennis had found him and explained. Only Chaol’s steady voice, imploring him to wait, to heal, and plan, had kept him from flying here immediately.

Dorian shivered, as much to shake the drops of mist from his feathers as the thought of what that hag was doing to Manon. If he’d been human, he would have reached for his neck. For that ring of scarred skin that still gave him twinges of pain for no reason. As it was, he itched the spot with a sharp talon. But there was no relief.

Springing off the branch, he took to the air and flew towards a dark window at the bottom of the smaller of the two towers. The Matron’s was the largest, but Manon and the Thirteen had occupied the one next to it. That would be the first place he looked.

*****

_Earlier…_

_The room was pitch black. A thick, swirling darkness. She didn’t know how her captors kept the sunlight out. Not so much as a sliver of light came through the spot where the window was. Or should be._

_Maybe she wasn’t even in her room. But where, then?_

_There was no putrid smell, no freezing, damp air to suggest the dungeon. The only cold she felt was whatever chained her. And the only scent she could make out was…_

_Nothing. No scents. No sounds. No light._

_Carefully, unsure of what she might find, she felt around herself, fingers brushing the stone floor in a wide circle. This felt familiar, as if she’d done it before. Many times before._

_And like all the other times, there was nothing._

_Where was she? Who was she?_

_She stopped moving at that last question. Why would she ask herself that? Had the pain robbed her of so much that she didn’t know her own name? Her head throbbed. Perhaps that was the cause of her memory lapse. She forced herself to concentrate, and some scrap of identity became clear.  
_

_She was a queen._

_But, a queen of what?_

*****

The Thirteen’s tower was not tall, but it was wide, with a maze-like quality that made him silently curse. The witch who drew the map warned him that her knowledge was limited. Not many witches were allowed in the tower.

Poking his head around a corner, his rodent nose sniffing the air at every turn, Dorian made his way slowly through a hallway he hoped would lead to the stairs. If it didn’t, he’d have to turn around and search a different corridor. His heart pounded with every second lost.

A dead end greeted him as he made his way around a long curve in the hall. He almost swore again but his attention was captured by the stench. It came from a closed door. Panicking, he shifted into his human form and turned the handle. In the far corner, bodies were piled high enough to reach the window. Bile rose in his throat, and he gagged it back.

He got as close as he dared and after a few moment’s inspection, confirmed they were witches. Blackbeaks. How long they’d been here, he couldn’t tell. They looked… desiccated. Sucked dry and hollowed out. The how was as strange as the why. Why would the Matron kill her own witches if she was relying on them to protect her? She was brutal and unstable, but this seemed senseless.

Shifting back into a mouse, he left the room and its reek of death, and ran back to find a different route up. Another hallway, another corner and ahead, he spotted the narrow stairway. It would curve its way to the top of the tower, with only a handful of floors branching off from it.

It was here that two very different smells hit him. Both familiar and strong. Both threatened to undo him.

*****

_Earlier…_

_Her eyes opened again to total darkness. Had she slept? She felt rested, and oddly energized. Lighter. Powerful._

_As she reached out to touch her surroundings, she screamed._

_Her fingers burned, the pain like living flame coursing through her._

_She tried to rest the backs of her hands on her knees, but that did nothing to relieve the pain._

_“Here. Let me help you.”_

_The voice was low and seductive. Female._

_Before she could agree, the pain dissipated. The pain in her head was gone too, though it had been drowned out by her hands._

_She sighed with relief, and tried to speak. But the words came out in a croak. “Thank you.”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“I am a queen. Like you.”_

_She reached forward to where she thought the voice came from, but found nothing. No scents. No sounds. No light._

_“Where are you?” The question sent a shiver of pure fear through her. The instant it was asked, she regretted it and didn’t want to hear the answer._

_“I am inside you.”_

*****

The stench of valg was going to make Dorian vomit this time. He didn’t know how that would manifest in his raven form. Either way, the nausea was real. As was the pounding in his head, the terror making him wish he could fly faster. His fear wasn’t just from what he might find, but whether he’d have enough magic to do anything about it.

After his magic was partially depleted creating the lock, he had to be careful. The days of unending power were over. Without it, he had no way of saving Manon.

The odor, terribly enhanced in this form, was pouring down the stairs from the next floor. Underneath the rankness, he could just make out Manon’s scent, soft and warm and alive.

There was death wafting in the air too. This time, fresh and bloody.

At the top of the stairwell, blocking the hallway, a body lay crumpled, blue blood puddling around it. The head sat a few feet away, its white streaked hair just out of reach of the mess.

Apparently, the Blackbeak Matron was no longer needed by whatever valg now tormented her granddaughter.

A moment of anger, of missed opportunity, filled him, and he had to remind himself, there were worse monsters he needed to face now. The Matron was dead, and good riddance.

*****

_Earlier…_

_Her eyes opened to fathomless darkness. Like before, she had no concept of time and how much may have passed. Unlike before, her mind had not been emptied of memories upon waking._

_She was still confined in a place of no scents, no sound, no light. That’s how she’d come to think of her existence. A vast nothing distinguished only by periods of pain and unconsciousness._

_Until…_

“I am inside you.“

_She was not alone. Or, maybe she was. Maybe the voice was split from her own somehow. Her, and not her._

_“What is your name?” It was another question she didn’t want an answer to, but it came forth, unbidden, trembling with fear._

_“I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours.” The voice was playful and sweet, with just a hint of cruelty._

_Out of nowhere, the pain that had once been taken away by the voice flared, spiking through her head and jaws, down her neck and arms, into her fingers. She sobbed, unable to soothe it. As the throb and fire peaked, she knew that soon, she wouldn’t be able to bear it at all._

_“Tell me your name.” Sour and sharp like fangs, the voice commanded her now._

_“I don’t know,” she moaned. “Please. You said you’d help me.”_

_The laugh reverberated through her, and she was certain now that the voice was telling the truth. It came from within her. But it wasn’t her._

_Something snapped and the pain was gone again. But the laugh had only quieted, not ended._

_“I will keep the pain at bay, but you must do something for me, little queen.”_

_She nodded, tears rolling freely down her cheeks, dripping onto the floor. “Anything.”_

_“Pick up that sword.”_

_The darkness that had swallowed her for what felt like eons, began to evaporate just enough for her to see a gleaming sword in the corner. Slowly, expecting sore muscles and aching joints, she pushed herself up. But as the voice promised, there was no pain._

_The sword felt good in her hand, like it was made for her. With the muscle memory came a flash of true memory. The wind, whipping through her hair. The sword, cleaving the air. A solid warmth beneath her, carrying her across the sky._

_“No more of that,” the voice said, and the vision was gone. “Now, just wait here. We have a troublesome pest that I’d like you to get rid of. He has plagued me for long enough.”_

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Three doors stood closed before him on the small landing. The Matron lay dead at his feet. The reek and pulsing evil of valg filled his senses. And still, he felt Manon. Not just with his magic, which always came to life near her. There was something else pulling him.

Nothing would ever compel him to use it against her, but Dorian still held Damaris at his side, if only for the illusion of strength. He started towards the door standing between them, trying desperately to bite back the terror of what likely waited for him.

An agonized scream broke the silence and he flinched back. Dorian had never heard a sound like that in his life. And though he’d never heard Manon scream, he recognized her voice buried inside it. Desperation replaced the fear. His muscles twitched with a frantic need to rush inside, but he forced himself to calm down. Slowly, he began to open the door.

*****

_“Prepare yourself,” the voice demanded. “The pest is here.”_

_With the darkness lifted, she could see her surroundings clearly for the first time in… days? Weeks?_

_The room looked and felt familiar, like the sword she held, but she couldn’t remember why. Her eyes lingered on every detail as she turned in a circle. The bed, the blankets, the large chest of drawers, the old, withered maps falling off the walls. And as her gaze passed over one of them, she stopped and stared at a single point. The Ferian Gap. Lashing wind and bestial cries and plummets down cliffsides. Vivid moments flashed through her mind._

_Just as she felt on the cusp of understanding something, the voice yelled, “Enough!” and pain like she’d never felt scorched through her body. Her scream echoed through the stone room and didn’t end until the misery ceased. It had been hours or seconds… It had been torture._

_And just like that, it was gone._

_“That was but a taste of what is to come if you do not rid our castle of vermin,” the voice said, sounding sad and apologetic, as if it was not responsible for what it had just done._

_She said nothing as she stepped silently into the corner and watched the door inch open._

*****

The room was empty. Rather, it looked empty.

He paused at the threshold and with his magic, examined the space. An impenetrable, eerie darkness clung to the corners and shaded the windows. The only illumination, weak and patchy sunlight, came through the open door behind him. So with a mental snap, he lit the torches lining the walls. The glimmer of golden eyes shone from his left, and Dorian turned to face them.

With her sword at the ready, Manon watched him enter the room with an eagle-eyed precision and vicious, blood-flecked grin. Her clothes were soaked in it, though it had long ago dried from blue to black. And around her neck, she wore a collar of wyrdstone.

Dorian swallowed hard, making himself go slowly. “What is your name?” he asked, hoping against hope he’d hear _her_ in the reply.

“You know my name, stupid boy.”

The blood ran from his face and an icy chill settled over him. The words came from Manon’s lips, but the voice was not hers.

“Maeve,” he said. “We thought you dead.” He knew he couldn’t fool her again. Not with the same tricks. Probably not with any. If he got her talking, had time to think of something, anything… His heart thudded wildly and he knew by the widening, black grin that she could hear it.

“Obviously not.” She ran her free hand down Manon’s torso. “I quite like this new vessel. Strong and lethal.” With a deep inhale, she added, “And powerful. I should have tried on a witch a long time ago.”

Dorian sent out a tendril of his magic and eased it towards her. Before he reached her, he sensed it. And it hit him with such a jolt that he almost swayed. The power, the magic emanating from her was not only Maeve’s. It felt new and yet totally familiar. A power bursting with life as if it had been kept dormant and only now tasted freedom. He glanced to her hands and found more dried blood.

“What did you do to her?” he growled, his own magic swelling to a boil.

“I did nothing,” laughed Maeve. “It was her grandmother’s idea to remove the iron. She was not a suitable host with it intact.” She closed her eyes, savoring the power that now fed her. “I am much stronger without it.”

*****

_Their conversation came to her in bits and pieces, and she realized she no longer felt the sword, no longer had the ability to speak. She no longer controlled anything._

_The man had called her - it - Maeve. The voice had a name. And like so many things, it was familiar._

_Just like him. Luckily, Maeve was staring at him, which meant she could too. The beautiful face, the raven black hair, even his sword brought tiny sparks of memory. A torch flickered, catching his blue eyes. A blue so deep and rich… like sapphires. That triggered another spark, and before she knew what was happening, an avalanche of memories overtook her._

_A fair-haired woman on the back of a blue wyvern, leading a larger group through the sky._

_Falling. First into a dark pit of gnashing teeth and spiked tails. Then into a freezing sea._

_Slashing with her sword and releasing arrows into frenzied enemies._

_A crown of glowing reds and blues and purples, placed on her head._

_Almost cutting her hand as her knife carved out an ironwood broom._

_The man before her, telling her his name. It was Dorian._

_An ornate box holding a blue heart._

_Another man, begging for mercy. For her life though, not his own.  
_

_Her jaw cracking when she unsheathed her iron teeth._

_Soaring through clouds. On the broom, then a mottled gray wyvern._

_Witch. Ironteeth. Blackbeak._

_She felt Maeve’s will clamp down, a silent threat of pain, but the memories were so piecemeal, she could barely make sense of them._

_Enough connected together to leave her with one certainty. She knew now that she was a witch._

_Witch. Ironteeth. Blackbeak._

_With that certainty came another. Her iron was gone. The pain. The ripping and tearing and pulling. The blood. The sense of lightness that now felt so terribly wrong. Along with this odd, new energy. It was too much, an all consuming vibration she felt coursing through her.  
_

_She tried to reach for her neck, having finally sensed the claustrophobic weight there._

_Meave slammed her arm to her side. No matter how hard she tried, she could not move._

_But the man. Dorian. His eyes were wide as they went from her hand to her face. And so, she tried again._

*****

While Maeve taunted him with her escape from Orynth and her long-ago bargain with the Blackbeak Matron to use her granddaughter as a vessel, Dorian ignored her. With every ounce of himself and his magic, he silently implored Manon to wake up. To speak or move. Do anything to resist.

When her fingers twitched and her hand began to rise towards her neck, as if just realizing there was something there, his breath caught. The movement stopped almost as quickly as it began, and he knew from experience how tightly the valg kept their subjects leashed.

“Manon,” he said, his eyes piercing hers. “I know you can hear me. I know you are fighting.”

A black whip of angry magic burst from her fingers towards him. It struck the shield he’d put up and bounced off. Manon - no, it was Maeve - made an appreciative noise.

“You mask your powers well. But not well enough. I can tell you’re not as strong as you used to be, little king.”

Dorian smirked. “I barely dipped into my full powers when I deceived you and destroyed Morath. And stole your magic” He almost laughed at the expression on her face. “Ahh, I’ve missed your temper Maeve.”

Another blast of magic hit him, this time invisible, and much stronger. The shield deflected it, but he knew the chinks would soon start to show. He needed to keep Maeve focused on him and allow Manon the chance to fight back.

*****

_As Dorian and Maeve traded angry words and magic back and forth, she worked to take control of parts of her body. Her progress was too slow though. Incremental victories were meaningless now. When she was able to feel the cold weight of the sword, loosen and flex her fingers around it, she set all of her concentration to it. With a whip-fast movement, she flung it aside._

_A sensation of tearing lashed through her as it clattered across the floor. Biting back the scream, she took hold of the pain and directed it elsewhere. Anywhere. The second it subsided, she envisioned a mental barrier taking shape around her, a defense for Maeve’s next attack._

_She had no idea how she was doing any of this, but she put all of her will into pushing against Maeve._

_As if through thick liquid, she heard a voice calling to her. It stole away some of her focus to try and listen, but she could make out some words._

_“Magic… without iron…strong enough…push her out…fire…”_

_A witch’s iron was gifted to balance out their magic. The thought was like a beacon breaking up fog. The vibration. It was magic. Her magic. Not Maeve’s. Without her iron, she had an unknown amount of power at her disposal. And, no experience utilizing it. She could only hope it was enough, that she was enough, to expel Maeve._

_But just as she was about to summon all her strength, she heard Dorian cry out in alarm._

_Refocusing her attention outwards, she saw his eyes, wide and blue. So incredibly blue. She followed them as he looked down at himself. To the sword she’d thrown aside, that was now buried in his chest. And to her hand - by Maeve’s will - still holding the grip._

To be continued!


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian’s blood ran down the edge of the blade, dripping slowly to the floor. He took a rasping breath and stared numbly as the drip turned into a cascade. The searing pain he’d first felt was dissipating, and he knew that was a bad sign. She still held Wind Cleaver. And when he fell to his knees, she bent with him, as if guiding him to the floor.

He knew the gratified gleam in her eyes came from Maeve. If Manon was still able to exert any control, to feel anything, she’d be horrified.

He’d failed. Miserably. 

Knowing she’d have to live at the mercy of a valg, in the prison of her own body, hurt him the most. The only thing keeping him from breaking completely was the hope that with her newfound magic, she’d be able to wrest control from Maeve. He hadn’t given her enough time. But maybe she’d have it now.

He slumped onto his side and groaned in pain. Blood bubbled out of his mouth with the sound. She was on her knees, leaning close to him, watching.

Forgetting about Maeve, Dorian stared into Manon’s golden eyes. Hoping she could see his love, his sorrow for having failed her.

With his last bit of strength, he lifted a trembling hand to her face. And just before his eyes closed, he said, “I’m sorry, witchling.”

*****

_Manon shuddered in disgust at the sensation of Maeve’s triumph filling her body. But she did nothing to counter it, letting the thing gloat. Letting it become distracted by its victory so that she could think. And watch._

_Watch the man - Dorian - choke back blood. Watch her hand maintain a soft, pliant hold on the sword, so she didn’t hurt him further._

_And... it was_ her _hand._

 _And it felt like he was seeing her -_ her, not Maeve _\- as he stared into her eyes and smiled. His feather light touch on her cheek... she felt it with an intensity that shocked her awake. Aware. Alive._

_His magic kindled something in hers, boosting its force and depth. And then, his magic was dwindling away. She felt it going._

“I’m sorry, witchling.”

_Witchling. That word felt… He felt…so familiar.  
_

_She brushed her fingers across his brow and saw they were shaking._

_Again, hers. It was_ her _hand._ Her will _._

_Remembering his voice from moments ago, Manon fixated on one word._

_Fire._

_If this thing was afraid of fire, then she’d incinerate the entire world to burn it out. Punishment for what it had done to her, and to him.  
_

_Summoning every ounce of strength and magic, sparks sputtered and leapt to life. Gathering it in her hands, she carefully shaped it into a glowing, swirling orb._

_This finally drew Maeve’s attention. The thing lashed out in a feeble attempt to subject her to more pain, to control and subdue her. It hit her imagined barrier and rebounded. Maeve’s agonized cry pierced Manon’s soul and for a second, she faltered. The ball of fire flickered._

_“Enough!” Maeve screamed. “You are mine!”_

_Manon took a long, centering breath. The memories she’d had flashes of earlier came racing back, more clear, more complete. Everything came back._

_The Thirteen. Asterin and Vesta and Sorrel and the others. All dead. Gone, to ensure the chance for a better world._

_Dorian. Abraxos. Glennis. Petrah. Her friends and people. All the armies converged on Orynth. Fighting desperately for the same end._

_Fighting and dying at the hands of the thing that inhabited her body. The valg queen her grandmother had sold her to._

_The rage and the grief, the sight of Dorian at her feet, in a puddle of bright red blood, all of it culminated in a rush of power that inflamed her entire being._

_“No,” Manon said, her voice deathly low. “_ I’ve _had enough.”_

_Sensing Maeve retreat a step, as if trying to remove herself, Manon unleashed her magic in a wild explosion of fire. It poured from her every cell and nerve, pulsing in waves._

_Maeve’s pleading screams ceased as she was obliterated in a torrent of blinding white heat.  
_

_An ear-shattering crack sounded as the collar around her neck fractured and fell to the floor. A heavy blackness descended, and she slipped away.  
_

*****

Manon opened her eyes. 

She was greeted with a dull ache in her head from where she’d fallen. As she’d done each time she’d awoken here, she stretched out her hands to inspect her surroundings. It took a moment to realize it wasn’t necessary. 

The room was no longer pitch black. The sunlight of late afternoon shone through the windows. The acrid scents of smoke and magic filled the air. And underneath them, fresh blood.

She bolted up and scrambled across the stone floor to where Dorian still lay, Wind Cleaver jutting from his chest.

“No, no, no,” she muttered. Her shaking hands hovered over his limp form, wanting to touch him, to help him, but unsure of what to do. She bent down and placed her ear to his blood stained lips. After what felt like an eternity, the slightest bit of breath brushed over her skin.

With a grateful sob, she looked him over. She’d seen him and his friends heal with their magic, had even been on the receiving end. But she had no knowledge of how it was done. Did it rely on intention? Direction? She had the desire to heal him. What she lacked was precision and control of her magic. If she did nothing, he would die. Desire would have to suffice.

“Stay with me princeling.”

As gently as she could, and hating herself with every inch, she pulled the sword from him. His body arched slightly with her movement, then flopped backwards. Fear threatened to overtake her and she had to force herself to keep breathing. She rolled Dorian onto his side and placed one hand at the exit wound and the other at the entry. Praying to the Three-Faced Goddess, to the entire pantheon, to anyone and everyone, Manon closed her eyes and _pushed_.

Not with her hands, but her magic. It poured from her into Dorian. With a vague yet impassioned command to _Heal_ , she offered everything she had, and didn’t move until she sensed that tiny connection of energy that she’d felt before.

Her magic animating his. Alive, if not yet awake and aware.

With so much blood surrounding them, she continued applying her magic until his breathing grew regular and strong. Exhausted, she let herself fall next to him, never removing her hand, her magic, from his chest.

*****

His eyelids felt like they'd been cast in lead and he struggled to open them. Every part of him felt heavy, remote.

There was a warmth alongside him. A hand on his chest.

With a surprising amount of effort, Dorian cracked his eyes open, just enough to see torchlight, the night sky through a window. Opening them a little more, he turned his head slightly to see a head of white hair on his shoulder.

“Manon,” Dorian croaked, finally tasting the blood in his mouth. He thought she was asleep but she sat up immediately. The pressure of her hand didn’t change and he used all his strength to cover it with his own. “Witchling.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said, her voice as hoarse as his.

But it was her voice. Not Maeve’s.

“Is she-” He coughed, wincing at the expected pain. But none came. 

In answer to his unfinished question, Manon glanced to the corner where the split collar lay next to a pile of ash. Maeve had been reduced to dust once before. Unless that had been some sort of illusion. He didn’t think they should take any chances. Before he could try to call upon his magic, Manon made a sweeping motion with her free hand and the ash burst into flame, burning white hot until all traces of the valg queen were gone.

For some reason, the sight of her magic triggered the memory of the sword entering his chest. The pain, the blood. He should be dead. 

“How?” he asked, looking down to where Manon’s other hand still hadn’t moved. He tried to lift it, so he could inspect the wound, but she resisted.

“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “No. I can’t let go. If I let go...” She trailed off and he felt her hand tremble.

How long had they been lying here like this? How long had she been afraid to move for fear of hurting him? More importantly, was she okay?

“Can you help me up?” Before she could protest, Dorian added softly, “You don’t have to let go.”

Manon hesitated but agreed. Once he was sitting, eye to eye, he placed his hand on her cheek. “How do you feel?” She leaned heavily into his touch. “Your iron.” It was all he could say, unable to imagine the scope of her loss. Such an integral part of her, gone. Like the Thirteen.

Silver lined her bright gold eyes and he thought she must have read his mind. But she only said, “The magic feels... odd.” Glancing worriedly to where her sword had run him through, she said, “I don’t know if I did it correctly.”

“I’m alive,” he said. “Because of you. May I?” Gently, he tugged at her hand, and when she relented, he lifted it away. Red blood covered the blue that had dried on her fingertips. The sight made his heart break. “Does it hurt?” A quick shake of her head, which he did not believe. Perhaps there was no physical pain. It was the emotional that would linger. “Is there someplace we can wash?”

Manon helped him stand, and again, when he expected pain, nothing happened. His blood loss left him weak, but otherwise, he was fine. She’d healed him. Maybe brought him back from death, or near enough. _After_ expelling Maeve and breaking the wyrdstone collar. A valg queen, arguably more powerful that Erawan. For the first time since regaining consciousness, he reached out with his magic. There was no need to direct it. Her magic attracted his. Like a magnet. And when they joined, he gasped at its intensity.

"What?” she asked, reaching to hold him up even though he hadn’t stumbled.

Dorian stared at her in amazement. “You have raw magic. More than anything I’ve ever seen.”

She blinked and continued to walk as if she hadn’t heard him. The trade - her iron for raw magic - was not a fair one. Certainly not one she would have chosen. The sad truth, though, was that without it, neither of them would be alive. 

*****

Shivering from the icy water, they washed away as much blood as possible. 

Manon remained silent throughout, ignoring the magic pulsing in her blood. And the urge to scour her skin raw. Maeve was gone. The collar was gone. But the feeling of her, of it, remained, like a coating of filth that she could clean off if she just scrubbed hard enough. 

It wasn’t until Dorian took her hand, stopped it from its furious work, that she realized she’d scraped the skin of her forearm until it bled. He said nothing, just held her hand until the shaking stopped. 

“I feel...” But she had no words. And judging from his expression, she didn’t need them. He’d felt this. He knew.

She stared at her fingers. The scars along each one were visible now that the blood was gone. They no longer hurt. Running her tongue across her gums, she felt scar tissue there. Her mouth no longer hurt either. Perhaps her magic had healed her wounds as well as Dorian’s. 

No sign of her blade marred his chest, or his back. There hadn’t been time for scars to form. Enough had passed since her iron was taken that her magic could not remove them from her skin. 

Magic. No iron. 

_Am I still a witch?_ she wondered. 

“Yes,” Dorian said, almost angrily. 

Manon hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. His eyes were softer than his voice and she knew his ire was not directed at her.

“You are an Ironteeth witch. A Blackbeak and a Crochan,” he continued. “You are a Queen.” Cupping her head in his hands, he said, “What they took from you, what they did to you...” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “It changes you, yes.”

She didn’t miss the word choice. _He felt this. He knows._

“But not all of you.” He put a hand on her heart and she felt heat radiate from his palm. It settled in her chest, spreading warmth throughout her body. “Not the true you.”

Manon tried to smile, tried to believe him. But that heart he held with his magic wasn’t sure. How could she be an Ironteeth witch without iron? How could her people accept her now?

As if he knew her doubts, Dorian said, “Before I left Orynth, Glennis gave me something.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small piece of fabric. Unwrapping it carefully, he said, “She wanted me to give it to you.” 

In the middle of the cloth lay a tiny purple flower. Aside from being a little flattened, the vibrancy of its color made it look like it had just been picked. Gingerly, she picked it up and sat it in her hand. 

“It’s from the Wastes,” he said, answering her question before she could ask. “From Rhiannon’s city. They’re blooming there. Everywhere.” Manon choked back emotion, unable to speak, and looked up at him with tears filling her eyes. “The Thirteen. They broke the curse. And you. You united your people, Manon. You are their Queen.”

*****

Avoiding the bodies littered throughout the Keep, Dorian led Manon to the balcony outside one of the windows. Little more than a wide ledge, he clung to the stone in wyvern form so she could climb onto his back. His magic had been regenerated by her own, and he felt strong enough to fly across the continent. But he was in no hurry to return to Terrasen. They would take their time, giving her the solitude to begin processing what had happened.

He flew them to where Abraxos waited and they could set up camp. The wyvern had followed him from Orynth despite being tied down by the witches. When he neared Blackbeak Keep, Dorian had pleaded with him to stay behind, hidden from the Matron and her coven. And the lethal magic encircling the Keep. The beast understood, and, reluctantly, remained in the woods a safe distance away.

Upon seeing him, Manon ran and swept him into a hug, her arms around his thickly scarred neck and his silvery wings wrapping around to shield her. The sight made Dorian smile for the first time in a long while. As he left them to go into the forest to hunt, he heard Manon speaking softly to Abraxos, and the wyvern replying with huffy breaths and low, peaceful coos.

The fire crackled, sending up sparks into the frigid night sky. He was worried she might not eat, but when grease started to drip from the rabbit he’d spitted over the flames, her eyes lit up. They ate in silence, then curled up against Abraxos, and each other, to try and rest. 

“You came for me,” she whispered sleepily. 

“Of course,” he replied. “Nothing would have kept me away.” At the heave of Abraxos’s side as he inhaled, Dorian corrected, “Nothing would have kept _us_ away.”

“And I stabbed you with my sword.”

Dorian laughed, unable to help it. He pulled back an inch or two to get a look at her face. Manon’s eyes were closed but her lips curved upwards in a faint grin. Her beauty always struck him with such force that it left him with a sensation of falling. Luckily, he was already on the ground. Kissing her forehead, he said, “A small price to pay.”

Less than a minute later, she was asleep. Dorian stayed awake, holding her tightly to him, thinking about all she’d lost and all she’d endured.

Even before she had magic, and now without iron, Manon was strong and possessed of a fierce, compassionate heart. He didn’t think he had any of those things when he’d been subjected to the collar. And yet, he was still here. Thanks in no small part to his friends. And her. She would survive this. And he would do whatever he could to help.


End file.
